


Knight of the White Shield

by Isabear



Series: Summer Pornathon 2012 [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Breast Fucking, Caring Elena, F/M, Lancelot Lives, Summer Pornathon 2012, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2366957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabear/pseuds/Isabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He wakes in the woods, naked, placing one bloodied foot in front of the other like a babe just learning to walk. He has no idea where he is, </i>who<i> he is. He is lost, alone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight of the White Shield

**Author's Note:**

> Riding the Lancelot Lives pony ALL the way around the ring.

He wakes in the woods, naked, placing one bloodied foot in front of the other like a babe just learning to walk. He has no idea where he is, _who_ he is. He is lost, alone.

The drum of hoofbeats approaching is no louder than his own heart.

~

Lord Godwyn is a duke and his house a castle, thick walls and bustling interior. The wanderer is not treated as a madman but as a lost hero. Godwyn gifts him with food, clothing, a room. A sword, armor. A blank, white shield.

The first time he takes the sword in hand, he knows that Godwyn was right. The callouses of his palm fit perfectly. He is a man who has lived by sharp edges and grown hardened from them. Somehow, he is disappointed in himself.

In the evenings, his rescuer, Lady Elena, dines with them in her father's hall. Others are there - lords, councilors, knights with crests on their shields. Yet she asks him to sit at her right hand. He, the nameless knight from a foreign land.

The whispers are soft, but he can hear them all the same.

~

In dreams he sees faces, achingly familiar, and knows them for people he has lost. He also dreams of cold, of water, of fire. Those dreams he pushes back. The faces he calls after, but with names he can never remember by daylight.

Still, one of those faces that gifts him with his name. "Lancelot," says an earnest young man with bright blue eyes. "Lancelot," like he is begging for something.

Lancelot wakes with his own name ringing in his ears.

~

 

The Lady Elena tends him, though he is not ill. Not in body - at least not once his feet healed. Heart and mind are less easily cured.

When he wakes she is often already there, puttering about his room. He cannot tell what she hopes to do - she has the air of a practical woman but none of the skills. Her hands often flutter, uncertain. She walks carefully, as though afraid to stumble, but he finds her only slightly clumsy. She is, he thinks, hiding a part of herself from him.

He cannot blame her.

So he often wakes from dreams of lost friends to hear her humming and watch her wander his rooms, airing things that don't need airing and kicking up dust trying to clean. Perhaps he should dislike the invasion of his privacy, but he feels so little sense of self yet that he isn't sure he cares. Or perhaps since her face was the first one he saw, he finds the sight of it comforting.

~

Three months later, he competes in the annual tournament, his shield still white. He defeats all comers, but when they hand the purse and golden chain to him, he carries them to her and offers them up.

She laughs out loud before the whole assembled crowd, head thrown back. Then she tells him she doesn't run an inn, but he may buy her a horse if he wishes.

He does. She likes that much better.

~

A week after the tournament, he wakes to her humming voice, a low thrum of pleasure in his veins. Still half asleep, he wallows in the sound, in the feeling of _safety_ and _home_ and _want_.

"Good morning," she says.

He opens his eyes slowly, but she is not looking at his face. She is looking further down his body, a half-smile on her face.

His blush feels like a bonfire.

~

" _Oh,_ ," he gasps, and "oh!" He feels stripped bare - a man of flesh and blood, writhing beneath her strong hands. Her tongue peeks out between her lips as she tries to find the perfect way to touch him that will drive him absolutely mad.

He does not tell her she has already won that battle.

She shifts down, pushing at her undergarments until they puddle at her waist, leaving her ample bosom bare. Carefully, she cups her hands around her softness and gathers him up between. She moves slowly at first, up and down, while he stares in either awe or shock, he cannot tell which. Then, as in everything, she begins to rush.

He sees the head of his own manhood emerging from between her breasts over and over, purple against her pale skin. He sees her grin of triumph, feels the soft swell of her encasing him, and with a gasp he throws his head back, utterly undone.

She laughs again, wild and free.

**Author's Note:**

> For Summer Pornathon 2012 challenge #7, "Non-penetration".


End file.
